Monday 30 December 2019

Adam Oehlenschläger: 'Guldhornene'

The Gold Horns

They peer in pages
of ancient sages,
on opened barrows
their gaze now narrows,
on shield and sword in
each castle ruin,
on runestone boulders
midst bones now moldered.

Old deeds exciting
cast spells if bidden;
but earth keeps hidden 
the ancient writing.
Their gaze unseeing,
Thoughts wild and fleeing
In mists they’re groping.

“You days of glory
lost well past hoping!
when the North shone clearly
with heaven here nearly,
may we glimpse your story!

Clouds are rushing,
Night is hushing,
Barrows sighing
Roses shying.
The heavens’ highest ceiling
pealing!
The high ones transfigured
are teeming, are teeming,
daubed red for war’s rigours,
their eyes starlike gleaming.

“You who reel and are blind
will find
a relic of bygone year
that will come and disappear!
Its sides full golden
the stamp will be wearing
of times most olden.

Its lesson’s for sharing.
With reverent bearing
our gift you repay us
Of beauties the fairest,
a maid
will this treasure discover!”
They sing and pass over.
The airborne sounds fade.

Black Rimfaxe, fawning
his mouth flecked with lather,
plunges into the ocean.
Gates of the morning
are ope’d by day’s father:
Skinfaxe in motion
with fire seems to leaven
the arch of the heavens.

The birds are all singing.
Dewdrops give showers
To petals of flowers
That breezes are swinging.
And with graceful lilt 
a maiden now dances
with violet-garlands
away to the field.
Her rosy cheeks bright,
Her hands lily-white.
Light as a deer
With spirit so clear
she floats sweetly smiling;
Love-thoughts beguiling
her mind in a tumble
she stumbles!
and sees as she gazes 
golden blazes,
and blushes and shivers
and lifts with a quiver,
amazed at the sight,
from the earth’s black hold
with hands snow-white
the crimson gold.

A peal of
distant thunder!
The North’s
in total wonder

With crowds soon forming
now seething, now swarming
they dig without measure
for yet more treasure.
But no more gold!
Their hope was mistaken.
They see but black mould
from which they’ve been taken.

A century dies!!

O’er summits the cry
again is sounding.
With force astounding
Storm’s floodgates break.
O’er Norway’s peaks
to Denmark’s vales
in lofty halls
once more they gather
the ancient fathers.

“For the precious few
who our gift well knew
who no earthly chains bind
but whose souls rise up
to eternity’s top
who sense what is high
in Nature’s eye
who adoringly learn
divine rays to find,
in suns, violets – in all,
the great and the small
who thirsting still burn
for the Life of Life,
who – oh great spirit
of ancient times! –
see your divine gaze
on its sacred sides,
for them is our stay!
A son of nature,
an unknown creature,
but strong and tall
as his fathers withal,
is tilling his soil,
we will honour his toil –
he’ll once more uncover!”
They sing and pass over.

Black Rimfaxe, fawning
his mouth flecked with lather,
plunges into the ocean.
Gates of the morning
are ope’d by day’s father:
Skinfaxe in motion
with fire seems to leaven
the arch of the heavens.

By woodland brow
The oxen heave
the heavy plough
and furrows cleave.
The plough seems to freeze,
and a shiver is heard
to pass through the trees.
Flocks of birds
cease to call
Holy silence
consecrates all.

The ringing of old
of ancient gold.

Gleaming pair from days of yore
in later ages dazzling.
Strangly they came as before,
on crimson sides so puzzling.

Sacred mystery enshrouds
ancient runes and signs.
A holy aura trembles round
these miracles from outside time.

Honour them, for fate can falter
soon maybe no more they’ll rove.
May Christ’s blood on God’s high altar
fill them, as did blood the grove.

You see gleam as the whole story,
not what’s venerable and high!
Only show their outer glory
to a dull indifferent eye.

Skies grow dark, the storms awaken!
Certain hour, your word is law.
What they gave has been retaken. 
What was sacred is no more.

ALS: 'De parallele wereld'

The parallel world

Yesterday I drove past the ice-rink in Almen, which had not only been hosed with water – there was also ice on it. I hadn’t seen this here for years: ice on the ice rink. A couple of weeks ago, to my amazement, I saw Kenzo Kusuda dance in the Bimhuis. He’s Japanese. With three metal crutches he danced among the tightly packed audience. I was deeply impressed and hoped he would go on dancing for hours, but he didn’t, I was very disappointed. On the way home I thought that perhaps the time had come for me from time to time to make the acquaintance of a parallel world. I once read short stories aloud in a pine wood on Terschelling, along with two musicians who I didn’t know. I had been invited as a talking substitute – the third musician had suddenly fallen ill. They made music on a prepared piano and with countless, impossible sounds. On that occasion too I was impressed and I suggested to them not to take the ferry back to the mainland, but to board the freighter that lay ready to sail to Japan the following day. We could then perform in seaports on the quay so as to earn some money and never return to our mother country again. They agreed, but the following day were not on board, on closer consideration their previous obligations had been given priority. I got bad-tempered and surly on the ship – after a month I got off at an African port and hitchhiked back home. I was not dissatisfied with my role in how things had turned out, I began to understand something about living on the fringe. My knowledge fell into place behind me when there were rumours that in the wood I often walked in an artist worked who nobody had ever seen. I kept a look-out, but never found any trace of him. I had forgotten all about this when I happened to meet him in a café in Almen. I knew that it was him, but he just told me about it when we talked about painting outdoors. He lived in a room in Zutphen, 12 kilometres away. He would cycle to the wood every day, to a spot where there were no paths and no people who walked near there. Two large pieces of sailcloth lay there between which he protected his gear from the wind. He had been doing this for years, no one had ever seen him, he came there every day. I suspected that I was beginning to understand the parallel world. When I later see that there is skatable ice on the ice rink, I have reached my goal.

Robert Gray: 'Diptychon' in Danish translation

DIPTYCHON



1
Min mor fortalte mig om hvordan hun en nat, som ofte skete, 
                      havde holdt sig vågen
i vores træhus, for enden af indkørslens
mørke bladmuld
og ventede på min far, efter værtshusene havde lukket, velvidende
                      at han måtte gå
adskillige miles ‘i hans tilstand’,
hvis ikke en eller anden satte ham af hjemme,
fordi han lang tid før havde kørt sin egen bil ud over en bjergskråning,
og i færd med at blive en legende havde kørt
på en plantages væltede 
bananpalmer, helt ned til dens fod, og nogens dør,
med bilen stejlende, og hurtigt glidende
på en kæmpeflåde
af lemlæstet, saftsivende fiber,
fra hvilken han var klatret ned, uskadt, helt igennem høflig,
og aldrig siden havde kørt.
Denne nat tøvede min mor med at gå ud, og efterlade os børn alene,
og faldt selv i søvn, fuldt påklædt, på den redte seng,
men sprang op, lidt senere, med den grimmeste smag –
så med det samme
at han stadigvæk savnedes – og styrtede ud, halvkvalt,
for at opdage at hun, i søvne, havde bidt halen af
et lille firben, der var trukket mellem hendes læber. Denne bitterhed
                      (plejede jeg at forestille mig),
løb hun ud på verandaen for at spytte ud,
og, stående dér, tør for spyt, så hun ud over den tavse, frosne bush,
og så at byens fjerne lys var døet bort.

Dog holdt min mor aldrig op med det som filosoffer påberåber sig,
                      ‘at yde omsorg’,
skønt hun aldrig havde læst andet end Women’s Weekly,
og kunne være ‘helt umulig’ gennem et par 
                      måltider, selvfølgelig.
Denne omsorg for ting, indser jeg, var hendes eneste ægte ledsager
                      i alle disse år,
Det var som om hun var to personligheder,
en fortravlet person, og en stille anden person, som så hvad
                      der skulle gøres, og
som syntes at træde igennem hende, igen.
Hendes omsorg for alting kunne man se komme til syne ligesom
tidevandets bræmme på saltflader.
Det var det som fik hende til at jage naboens tyr ud af vores
                      have med en kost,
da hun opdagede den i færd med at trampe hendes kimplanter ned –
tilbage, skridt for skridt tvang hun den, gennem det ødelagte hegn,
mens den brølede og stangede efter hende til højre og venstre hele vejen, 
jeg som var fem år gammel råbende på bagtrappen:
‘Gi’ den dog for pokker et par blomster, mor.’
Nej. Hun låste kosteskaftet med udstrakte arme tværs over dens næse
mens hun selv blev skubbet tilbage, brat, tværs over gårdspladsen. Hun
dukkede sig bagved nogen tomatstokke,
og slog den med håndtaget, lige over mulens rungende hulhed,
puffede mod øjnene med hirsebørsten,
og fik sin vilje, jog den brølende ud; imens jeg, i kvaler,
stod og slog mod trinene, rækværket, med en strygejernsledning,
og pludseligt styrtede derned, og blev ligeledes sat på plads,
slået tilbage til det nederste trin, hujende. Og alt,
indså jeg, på grund af disse skrøbelige blade
som hun med det samme begyndte at pusle med, små som musefodspor
                      i den nedtrampede lermuld.


2
Hvorimod, min far blot syntes at bekymre sig om aldrig at 
                      blive opfattet som dranker,
altid iført velpudsede sko.
En dranker definerede han som én der havde glemt en
                      gentlemans
facon.  En gentleman, dybest set, kendes kun,
eksisterer kun, i kraft af hans optræden. Selv havde han de mest perfekte
                      manerer,
så at sige. Jeg kan ikke forestille mig nogen
med en mere kølig og afslappet rolig opførsel. I ham
var al følelse underlagt facon. At børste og bule den hat
man så tog på, eller at se ud over os alle, og så
                      brede sin serviet ud
for at lade måltidet begynde – in en by hvor alle mænd sandsynligvis
en varm aften satte sig for at spise i en undertrøje –
var hans lidenskab. Han var, trods alt, akademiker
(dog uden afsluttende eksamen), noget mere sjældent dengang. Min far,
                      indser jeg, var håbløst melankolsk –
de små, mistroiske små øjnes
stilling, og de smalle læbers, i hans langstrakte ansigt
røbede hver fornøjelses bitterhed, bortset fra formens fornøjelser.
Tit drak han alene
i RSL-klubben, og var blevet set bærende et omhyggeligt udvalgt slips
for at drikke sig fuld i klitterne mens han betragtede havet.
Da han var syg og hjemme om natten, kiggede jeg ind i hans soveværelse
ved den ene ende af en veranda med trådnet,
lige rundt om døren og lidt bag ham,
og så hans uhyggeligt hvælvede hovedskal under lampelyset mens han læste
i cigarettens størknende røg.
Lys skinnede igennem netværket hen på de tætte hortensiahoveder,
og på den store uformelige masse af insekter, som bier på voks,
                      kravlende tøjret
og upåagtet lige ved side af ham. Han syntes at være tilfreds, i disse stunder,
som om han havde gjort alt han kunne for sig selv
og var blevet tvunget til, objektivt, at give op.
Han kunne lide sin kedelige mavesårspatientmad
og den store bunke biblioteksbøger jeg havde hentet. (Mine instrukser
                      var altid:
‘Ikke noget klynkende. Ikke noget af New York jøder;
ikke noget af kvinder, især de franske; ikke noget
oversat fra russisk.’)
Og dog var den eneste gang jeg hørte ham sige at han havde nydt
                      noget som helst
da han talte om bushen, engang. ‘Deroppe i bjergene,’
belærte han mig, idet han pegede sig omkring, ‘når solen stiger op
                      af havet, og man står blandt
disse høje træer, får man fred i sindet.’
Jeg var imponeret. En anden gang, bad han mig om, efter sin død, at
tage hans aske et eller andet sted hen, og ikke lægge ham sammen med
                      de lokale, på kirkegården.
Jeg gik op på et af bjergene han havde nævnt
år tilbage, på den tid på døgnet han havde talt om, når den halv-
                      opstegne sol
var lige så takket som den
på hans infanteritegn,
og dér strøede jeg ham ud, endelig fuldstændigt reduceret, i det
                      våde, vindblæste græs.
Trods al hans afstumpethed overfor min mor, havde jeg for længst
                      accepteret ham.
Han havde, trods alt, givet mig, eller vist mig, det bedste råd,
og havde ladt mig være i fred. Og jeg var kommet nu til det synspunkt at
                      vi alle er patetiske.
Da jeg åbnede hans murstensstore plastikæske denne morgen,
gled min lommekniv
og skar mig i hånden – og så gravede jeg med denne
i hans aske, som viste sig at ligne grålilla marmorstøv,
og følte at jeg ikke behøvede at finde flere ord.

Friday 27 December 2019

Winter poem by Willem Jan Otten

Op elke tak lag sneeuw ook op de dunste twijg.
Geen wind geen ree geen zucht nog iets verschoof.
Elke tak een hand met op zijn rug een zeepbel
neergedaald en toch intakt. Het sneeuwde niet.

Ach breng mij verder dan de stilte voor,
mij vrezer die in alle ramen wakjes amen
ademt, pers desnoods mij door je oog.

Kwam er geschenen zon, van elke tak zeeg
sneeuw zich sneeuwend zegenend tot sneeuw.



On every branch lay snow down to the slightest twig.
No wind no roe no sigh no thing that stirred.
Each branch a hand with on its back a bubble
floated down and yet intact. It did not snow.

Oh take me further on than stillness will,
I fearer who breathes amen ice-holes in all frosted
panes, if need be squeeze me through your eye.

Were now the sun to shine, from every branch would
drifting snow sift snowing blessing into snow.

Wednesday 25 December 2019

gerrit kouwenaar: 'muziek voor het slapen gaan' in danish translation

muziek voor het slapen gaan

Er stond muziek op toen zij hem vond
wat er speelde was zij later vergeten, had zij
afgelegd toegedekt of ingeslikt met zijn leven

zij hoopte dat het strawberries was geweest
zoetrood geneurie op koelere hoogte
en niet de negende kleine steeds weer
voorgoed onvoltooide

maar het liefst dat met die vluchtende vogel
die nooit kon antwoorden waarheen hij op weg was
en onder zijn veren kon uitrusten, inwonen –



musik før man sover ind

Der var musik på da hun fandt ham
det som spilledes havde hun senere glemt, havde hun
lagt af, dækket til eller slugt med hans liv

hun håbede på at det havde været strawberries
en sødrød nynnen i en køligere højde
og ikke den niende lille om og om igen
ufuldendt for altid

men helst det stykke med denne flygtende fugl
der aldrig kunne svare på hvor den var på vej hen
og kunne hvile ud, bosætte sig under sine fjer –

To see all the poems of 'Bezit' in Danish translation, go to here

Monday 23 December 2019

ALS: 'Gevallen engel'

Fallen angel

I’d like to write something about a man who cycles to work every morning. He lives in the Rivierenbuurt district and cycles to the city centre, near to the Central Station. He has a wife and child. The route he cycles morning and evening has been the same for the past 15 years. This means that he now not only knows the streets, the houses and the tramway lines but also the housewives who have a fixed job, for this was at a time when few women worked outside the home. Over the years the man has fallen in love with a women in the neighbourhood of the Ceintuurbaan. They have never spoken to each other, but because his cycling times are so precise, customs have arisen on both sides the effect of which is rather like low and high tide, sun and moon, day and night. The man is a fallen angel, but he is unaware than the woman knows about this. The woman was born in Sumeria, an area that was once a part of Mesopotamia, The Land between Two Rivers. It is regarded as the first land in the world to have displayed characteristics of a human civilisation. This woman in the neighbourhood of the Ceintuurbaan is in love with the man who cycles twice a day past her house and looks at her as if a history between them could possibly arise. She feels her blood, but also her brains, she knows that he originally comes from the tribe of fallen angels, and she is unwilling to take over that curse. He will not be released, nor will she be forgiven her false step. That is how things lie after thousands of years, and nobody in this young neighbourhood is aware of the fact. Something changes when her husband dies and her children leave the house. The woman changes in her loneliness, she seeks a rapprochement with the cyclist and wishes to forget that he is a fallen angel. The cause may be mere chance, that of the cycle: a puncture. After 15 years his bike gets a puncture outside her house. She immediately feels that this is a sign, she comes out, he has up-ended his bike and is searching for the puncture. They look at each other, she is four thousand years old. Her first words are: ‘Morning star, sun of the dawn light, how deep you have fallen! You who ruled over your peoples have been struck down.’ He sneezes three times and says: ‘Do you have any tissues?’ She goes back into the house to fetch them. He thanks her with a kiss and whispers: ‘It is over, we have become ordinary mortals. I am no longer an angel, you simply live in Amsterdam, you can forget about The Land between Two Rivers.’ She asks: ‘Shall we buy a Christmas tree?’ This, however, is going a bit too far for him, Christmas trees have never been part of the family traditions. At this point the story stalls, the writer’s hand seeks rest. He probably lets the fallen angel mend the puncture, he follows the woman on her final journey to Sumeria,  but he does not record any of this on paper. The years that follow are ordinary and anonymous, as are the lives of practically everybody. The upstairs neighbour of the man is the only one who cannot accept this. He begs the couple to be allowed to mention something about their wedding, two years later. They hesitate, but finally agree to this. He is allowed to be present, but must not expect any large-scale celebration. In February 2022, at Stadsloket Zuid, they are joined in matrimony at half-past nine in the morning. From that moment on, they are like everybody else, humanity that no writer wants to understand, as has actually always been the case.

Friday 20 December 2019

Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer: 'Indolent Sonnet'

INDOLENT SONNET

waarin de klimaattop in Madrid mislukt


Wanneer een zaak urgent mijn aandacht vraagt,
geen uitstel duldt en echt gedaan moet worden,
wil ik de wekker allereerst vermoorden,
had ik de dag het liefst een dag verdaagd,

blijf ik in bed tot twintig over elf,
voel ik me Don Quichot belaagd door reuzen,
rek ik me kreunend uit op mijn dormeuse,
peil ik stakingsbereidheid bij mezelf

en schaam ik mij. Tenminste schaam ik mij.
In hoge hallen wordt er schaamteloos
getalmd omtrent de redding van de aarde.

Zo gaat er weer een laatste kans voorbij.
Inertie maakt elk hopen hopeloos.
Uit hebzucht laat men de planeet ontaarden.



INDOLENT SONNET

in which the climate summit in Madrid fails


Should urgent matters for attention call,
brook no delay, be on the spot accomplished,
I'd first of all the alarm clock have demolished
had I the day one day have tried to stall,

and if I stay in bed till almost twelve
I’m like Don Quixote round whom monsters throng,
if groaning I stretch out on my chaise longue
I sense reluctant langour in myself

and feel ashamed. At least I feel ashamed.
In lofty halls procrastination’s shameless,
attempts to save the earth are left to rot.

And so the final chance then goes unclaimed.
Inertia makes all hoping seem so helpless.
From greed our planet soon will go to pot.